Friday, August 1, 2008

Welcome to issue twenty of CSR! By now, you regular readers know my baby likes to escape through the door in the bookcase and hates goats on the Greyhound. It craves juicy peaches and makes cute little sounds when I accidently swallow one of the pits. Baby has an uncanny ability to turn the words of poets into scents only found in a box of candy. Issue Twenty is no exception. This month is filled with helium balloon-light photographs, along with rose petal art. Add to that, a group of stunning poets, an intriguing music maker and one magical book review and you've got the possibility of a poison ivy infection. Trust me, when you finish this issue you'll feel like a cool slice of watermelon. Or he only shoveled compost while the village slept. Either way, this issue will highjack your interest with delights seldom found in crash helmets. So escape from your bumper car and get busy...

I contact Ebay to see if I can sellmy left ventricle. Customer servicehas a hard time getting back to me,their emails keep ending up in myspam folder, so I decide to callthe free 800 number (it's supposedto be active 24 hours a day) butthen I just get a recording, and thefunny thing is, the recording hasmy name on it, it's kind of hardto understand, there's the noiseof large machinery and race carsin the background, and I wonderfor the first time where Ebayis located, is it in a particularstate? I always imagined it floatingin cyberspace somewhere, and whenI picture cyberspace, my ideasalternate between a cold blackicy room with green numbers floatingby like large dust particles, and avast empty white plane, peopledby tall white men in form-fittingplastic body suits. Anyway, the recordingsays something about Christineand then something about Beth Anneand the requirements to become a goldmember, but I don't want to becomea gold member, I keep telling the recordingmachine, I just want to find outhow to sell this tiny part, which ishard because I don't have a very clearphoto, and I'm not sure how muchto charge for shipping.

Disaster Sushi

While I, while itdrops through my chopsticksthe sticky rice round your chinyou tell me about the babyelephant who tried to getinto your size 12 pantsin the rest room, whereyou had taken them offto air, as that infectionhad come back, and with a rashthis time, and I ask ifyou're speaking metaphorically.You blink as if a lizardhad skittled over your brainand then the light bulbbursts over your head;in the shower of harmless,deadly glass you saynow we're both in the dark,what were you talking about, love?

I Tell My Mother

About a dream in which she dies.There’s a cranky buzz on thecordless phone, I bring it closerto the base, farther away,the buzz stays the same. I canhear my mother licking her lipsand sipping her coffee. Go on,she says, tell me the part aboutthe stairs again.

Hunters Point, 1PM

the girl in front of meis paying for her cheeseburgerwith stripper bills, tens and fivesfolded down the middle,greasy from her thighs

her brown matted braid swingsdown as her diamond-starredfingernails untangle her cash,wadded at the bottom of a purse

out of its gleaming depthsfloats a stray napkinwhite unfolding brightstruck by a breezefrom the opening door,it rises into the street, vanishes

Learning about Mammals

underneath the stairsthe whale grapples with the squidnothing protects the children from the dioramathe lip of the exhibit comes upto their knees they step in whenthe teacher’s fussing at Gregand Sheila

on the other sideshake out their pant legsscratch their scalpshide in the darkest partsunder the floating animalsdusty mouths the sizeof school desks

look at me, he says to hertouching the cool whale belly,touching his own nose

I helped her up from the bed,her frail bony body trembling,the bedsheets damp from the pain,and fed the painkillers intoher parched mouth hopingit will ease her sufferings.There was fight in her eyes,she will not give up easily,as i forced a plastic smile,hoping she will live till Christmas,as i repeated to myself,damn it, no tears, she will not want it this way.

ii.

I was at her grave, with the flowersand incense, her ashes just a stone slab away,and i ran my fingers down the indentationsin the marble that was her name.I remembered how i had ran thesesame fingers down her svelte bodyin a darkened room, when we wereyounger and unsure,the soft moans, the mad entwiningof hot bodies,and i smiled and cried and called her name.

in the half light that is the dawn overthe blocks of flats, when the night windgently slaps discarded papers and dead leavesalong the long expanse of corridor of our block,i leave for work, my cigarette smoke minglingwith the perfumed incense my old neighbour lightedto the God of Heaven, praying for safe passagethrough the day for her and her loved ones.then i walked past doors protected by talismans,bogus, even crucifixes, past homes guarded by waifsof pomeranians that snarled from behind locked gates,their barks, shrill and indignant, in the cool air,go past flowerpots with plants badly in needof watering, down the stairs through the coffeeshop,through harsh fluorescent lights and whiffs of toast,past grizzled old men drinking coffee from saucers,then meet the hordes of sleepy-eyed childrensleepwalking to schools, the grandmothersshuffling to the wet market to haggle overfishes and vegetables.the same gods are watching over us all.

my old sergeantcalls to mefrom a bus stop.he still remembers memaybe i am the nerdy oneori don't give him trouble.we talkand laugh.we are old men nowhow time has aged a soldier,he walks with a cane today.was it not long agoi saw him dismountfrom an armored carriercarbine slung acrosshis chestwalking through a hazeof red dustchurned upby battle vehicles?we talkabout the old days.we laughcough a bitand thengo about ourseparate ways.

Later it will hang in a dark closetbeside your blue suit. When youwear it, it will stand betweenthe lies you tell the worldand your heart.But now, dangling on the line,autumn’s slow conflagrationsparking behind it,it has shaken off your claimsof ownership.Startled with sun,the wind captured in one swollen sleeve,it is the purest thing on the landscape;it is the Holy Ghostcome out to stir the flames.

-first appeared in The Tampa Review

Your Waitress

While dreaming a poem about autumnyour waitress thoughtlessly pouredwater in your coffee cup,splashed chowder on your suit.So sorry and excuse me butin case you haven’t heardthere’s a high wind in the dining room,a half-moon in the pie;there’s a blaze in the crystal,and wild weather in your eyes.I know you wanted your meat rare,some extra sour cream,but just outside the window, treesare bleeding leaves;the sunflowers wear mourning;there’s desolation at the tablesand tumult in the air;an anarchy of colorthreatens stability everywhere.I know you wanted your tea hotand your check promptly tallied;but in case you haven’t seen,your waitress has unloosed her hair,has given up her trayand absconded with her pen in handto catch the world that’s burning.

-first appeared in Nimrod International Journal

On Catching My Husband With A Cigarette After SevenYears Of Abstinence

It is not the smoke thatcoils around your headin the garage where you’veretreated with coffee and The Timesfor an early morning buttthat so startles me.No, it is merely your expression--the tacit admissionwe seldom dare to makeThat there is alwaysa life we hold in secret--unknown, ungovernable,fiercely unpossessed.

-first appeared in The Sun

Tornadoes Kill 8 In Arkansas And Tennessee

A photograph taken from the air shows uswhat remains.It is a Jackson Pollock, a confusion of coloron a grey-brown background.But somewhere in it,is everything we know of the world:houses, trucks, roads, people.And there beneath the familiar--the chaosthat finds us behind our locked doors,that tracks usto the rooms where we lie reading,that pulls usfrom lives we thought we were leading,and flings us out like broken sticksinto this aerial viewof vast and random darkness.

Summit Hill

It always seems to be winterwhen we come back here, milesof trees glittering with ice,cornfields flooded white--and somewhere in the center,a lonely figure in a snowmobile,lost inside its mechanical hum.Going back to the old mining townthat clusters at the top of the hillis a process of rising, climbing,ascending into a past as realand unyielding as these mountains.And just as unknowable.Less than a century ago, my husband’sgrandparents came here fromPoland and Slovakia; they fitted themselvesto this sharp landscape.Here they would go down intothe earth, and draw up an existencewe’ve grown too cossettedto imagine. Here they wouldspend the rest of their lives--fifty or seventy-fivewinters like this one, travelinga road cut through mountain,peering through black treesinto rough cut gorges, cold streams,woods too deep and impenetrable to fathom.

This is a funny poem. It is also polite—it’s pleased to make your acquaintance.It stands alone in that it likes to be petted,held, taken out for a walk, scratched behindthe ears, and enjoys the occasional hearty chortle.This poem is not afraid to mention randomfunny things like bananas, ponies,feet, flan, unicorns, or Britney Spears.This poem was funny when funny wasn't cool.It revels in its difference, it likes thatit’s not your standard free verse,formal, confessional, or sad bastard poem.This poem has always wanted to use the wordboomerang. If you say to it, “A man walksdown the street with a duck under its arm,”it will feign amusement because it’s heardthat one before, and come back to you with,“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?A stick.” This poem is proud of itselffor working in that joke. If this poemmade you smile at all, it will say, “missionaccomplished,” and mean it in a good way

My Body After Kids

Sags everywhere.Looks like a chickenin a butcher’s storefront.Wet tea bags for breasts,oatmeal for thighs, as ifmy old self was recalledand I was given this.See how my bodyredistributes itselfcell by cell by cellinto a new circumference,almost global? My handsonce bright as fansused to envelop the duskand twirl in dance. Now theybelong to a shape shifter—someone called out of one worldand thrown into another.

Monday

After the accident, strangers hurry pastas we pull into the median to check for dents.Our car armor, polished yet worn,is now streaked with damage. We digin our purses, find proof of existence,although we're not really sure what that means.Already the day feels old in its causticmorning thrum. Every five minutesan accident occurs—bumper to bumperin the stop-start lingo of the highway.We are made vulnerable by the April exhaust,just one more thing that makes this life heavy.Makes me think our days are marked with bulleyeson the backs of cars, how a crack in the roadveers us toward the crack in everything. What elsecan we do but shake hands and strap ourselvesback in? My car rattles like bones in the trunk.

The Wilting

Sometimes at nightI rise from bedto look at my dark skin.I make sure I can still seemy mother’s red clayand my father’s kudzugrowing aroundthese roadside eyes,a vista that fadeswith each passing season.The two noses I carrycome together as a hillon a ruddy landscape.In the soil of my fleshonce grew dogwoodand crepe myrtle—the harvest of where I came.How lucky I amto witness this wilting,night after night,as field returns to field.

Contrasts

The camera loves us,it bravely looks us in the eyes,does its best to defend us from lightand dark, though it seekswhat is not there.If I turn my head,bring my face my husband’sthere is always contrast.See my husband’s slight smile?He is light bouncing off of lightthat I absorb. The camerahas a dumb eye, makes me glowin the noonday sun.

Apparently floating on the river Spree in Berlin, Germany, the massive Molecule Man casts a striking shadow which leaves you in no doubt what it’s a sculpture of. However from ground level you really see how well the illusion is realized. Molecule Man was designed in aluminum by an American artist Jonathan Borofsky, who is better known for another of his works, Hammering Man. Molecule Man is actually a series of three sculptures installed in various cities throughout the world. It is located near Treptowers. It stands near the middle of the Spree River with many workboats and tourist boats passing it every day and can be seen clearly from the S-Bahn train looking down the River Spree towards the centre of Berlin, just left of the Fernsehturm or TV tower.

The giant artwork built in 1998 to 1999 for the new Allianz Corporation headquarters in Berlin (architect: Peter Schwegler). The sculpture consists of three male figures each around 30 metres or 100 feet high. The figures have holes symbolising molecules.

Borofsky's first Molecule Man sculptures were made in 1977 and 1978 in Los Angeles. Early molecule structures included a molecule chair, a ceramic molecule vase, a molecule figure and a model for a molecule building made from styrofoam balls. Originally, he was fascinated by this molecule idea because even though we appear to be quite solid, we are in fact composed of a molecule structure which, in itself is mostly composed of water and air.

He says that this hundred-foot tall aluminum sculpture composed of three figures meeting in the center, not only refers to the lightness inside our own solid bodies, but also the figures joining in the center, refer to the molecules of all human beings coming together to create our existence. Find out more about the artist at: http://www.borofsky.com/

Description: A volume of poems, conveying a remarkable range of tone and reference, verbal dexterity, strong, muscular, visceral use of language, yet, at the same time, a softness. They range from seemingly rough-hewn dialect chat, to the myths and folklore of the Celts, the Native Americans or the Finns.

Doc Gynéco (real name, Bruno Beausir) is a popular French hip hop artist of Guadeloupean origin. His music is typically characterized as a raggae/rap style, that has found its fan base in France. Born in Clichy-sous-Bois in Seine-Saint-Denis, on July 7, 1974, Beausir's mother was Caribbean and his father white. The latter left them in 1990, and partly as a result of this, Beausir was poor in his later teen years.

He launched his career at the age of 19, writing a few tracks for the hardcore rap group Ministère AMER. After this rap group parted, Virgin Records signed him with the intent of converting his demos into an album in Paris, but the project fell through, which resulted in him leaving for Los Angeles to work with a famous American producer, Ken Kessie.

The collaboration produced “Première Consultation”, released in 1996, which received large media praise and huge success both in France and the world. Singles from the album include “Est-ce que ça le fait?”, “Viens voir le docteur”, “Dans Ma Rue”, “Passements de Jambes”, and “Né Ici”.

Two years later on the December 1st of 1998 his second album appeared in the shops, entitled “Liaisons Dangereuses”. Although the main single — “C’est Beau La Vie” — created with the help of a politician (Bernard Tapie) was a flop, the album still sold reasonably well and earned its author even more notoriety.

In the spring of 2001, Doc Gynéco tried to come back at the front of the music scene after a few years of silence with his third creation “Quality Street” . The single “Caramel”, the first release from this new album met little success; yet guest stars on the album include the Wu-Tang Clan and Gregory Isaac.

In August of 2002, the 4th album called “Solitaire” came out. This last realization found its audience and gave Doc Gynéco the “Victoire de La Musique” award for “Best hip-hop/rap album of the Year”. Singles include “Funky Maxime”, “Frotti Frotta”, and “Flash”. A collection of his hit singles since the beginning of his career was released during 2004 (called 'Menu Best-of'). During 2006 the album Homme Nature was released. Find out more about him at: www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doc_Gyneco

then two trains latter andimariachi singer at the fortiesmonday to friday hourly relatesin tempo changes that portertunes in crystal tube radio hobbiesor in counseling we awkwardrobots with unpretty dates‘tis your silent witness herethat rises early in smokestand on any moving objectis that faces make me hurtand force countdowns whenhome along oil down dust roadsit’s spring and all we misplace

The Spanish Lover

sunday is an empty cup by noonthere a leafed through copy leftof everything in a scary movieit is a dance of chickens once morewhose russian bosses give noiseto promises of one day of restin foreign, it is easy to be taken into give over and boy scout onwith rumors that it is the businesshere in summer she sips the kool-aidit is points of tongue that occurwhen citrus tastes old in marchperform faster to memorize her sidein the end, only our winters matter

Sonnet For My Jaw

1986, i am a pointless secret agentsilently that kidnaps off sandswhat riot of only brown powertoo close to draw from memoryi don’t like the way this soundsthat pirates could have blamedfor texting a function of twentiesit’s true, they congregate guiltlesslyand sure to bring a wingmanthis is an accused vocabuarythat did this to me in atariin a lifetime that yearns to faintat any one word that comesto us in the guise as days of service

Broke Even

in this video my class of mennot yet sepia before new decadeswhat is the last car of ourbachelordom on bamboo screensall the way half on electricityholiday recasts his autobiographythis is the sad part of hope cityten chips down slaps the wheelit sounds so much more politeto put lady in front of your termswomanly at the bottom on the oceantrue believers end their discussionsthat outcome is empty gold birdthat twists blades of light on our backs

Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

two hundred-three dollars mid-augustcried for luck this bourbon contributionof next steps, some rings, baby names& the western slope which is burningand the one plays it out in lonely windfor taciturn gods in full opera voicejust back from gathering folksin stoic imaginations of the neighborspolice calls through rainy sundayswho makes this ratio of yin and yangfive years and misplaced address bookfor our only meetingplace is these eventsthunderless when you are entertainerswe hold the fire back for you to cross

So public a face, hers,it hardly belongs.A camera. All poses. All lies.

-both poems previously published at Dusie

In half-asleep love

I hush the peachesthe darkened kitcheneerily clean in thestainless gleam of thefridge and stoveredoubling the bounce.The cat bootlegs somechow bleating likesome other animal,ripping at the carpetwith an alien noise.He’s a shroud of a pet.Earlier we barhopped,avoided the jiffy algebrasof shifting seats at tablesby simply leaving.A door functions both ways.Open for water.Open for air.

Even A Zoo

The dawn arrived and the plums fell.We were both naïve and bold.Down it dropped into fields of saffron.Like flakes in winter triumphin the face of shine on snowthe sand conditions thingsfor change or burial.Who knows? The camels of this caravanmight expand into cheap memoriesin the national language.But there is more to me than this.183,000 pampered miles moreand in great condition.

Christine Hamm: she is a PhD candidate in English Literature at Drew University. In 2007, she was a runner up to Queens' Poet Laureate. Her poetry has been published in TheAdirondack Review, Pebble Lake Review, Horseless Press, Lodestar Quarterly, Blue FifthReview, Snow Monkey and Exquisite Corpse, among others. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and once for "The Best of the Web". Her collection of poems is called The Transparent Dinner (Mayapple Press, 2006). She teaches English at Rutgers University and poetry writing at Women's Studio Center in Queens, NY. She has publised three chapbooks and lives in NYC area.Find her blog at www.christinehamm.org

Cheong Lee San: works in a telecommunication industry where he spends his days writing boring reports, excuses and subtle threats. The only conclusion he can come up with for continuing his profession is that it pays the bills, which in turn keeps insomnia at bay. His real passion is poetry, something he writes in his spare time. What inspires him are the mundane, ordinary events and people that he observes during his work and play in his urban world. His work has appeared in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore and The Sidewalk's End. He resides in Singapore. You can read more of his works at his poetry blog at http://dsnake1.blogspot.com

Tasha Klein: she is a receptionist for a retirement facility and a telecommunications business. She is inspired by the poetry of Anne Sexton, Jim Morrison and E.E. Cummings. She has been published in numerous web eZines including Conspire, 2River View, Snakeskin, The MelicReview, The Rose & Thorn, Gumball Poetry, Mentress Moon, Mind Caviar, The Green Tricycle,Mi Poesias, Poems Niederngasse, MindKites, Snow Monkey, 3rd Muse Poetry, NewWorld Poetry, Southern Ocean Review, and so on. She lives in a grain solo in Dekalb, IL. Find out more about her at www.myspace.com/dreamsonnets

Micha Boland: he believes his photography can speak words he never thought were in his soul. So he lets his pictures do the talking. Some of his motifs include Monumental Valley, Florence, Berlin, Las Vegas, and carnivals. He shots with a keen artistic talent whether the subject matter is the Glen Canyon Dam or the Mercedes Benz Museum. He lives and works in Zollernalbkreis, Germany. Find more at: www.fotocommunity.com/pc/pc/pcat/339019

Patry Francis: she grew up in Brockton, Massachusetts, a city known for its legendary boxers and its heritage as "the shoe city of the world". Both her father and grandfather labored in the leather factories. She likes classic novels like David Copperfield and Crime and Punishment. Her first novel, The Liar's Diary, was published by Dutton and Brilliance Audio in February, 2007, and there are plans for it being published in the Netherlands, Germany, France, Spain, Poland, and the Czech Republic. She continues to reside in New England. Find her blogsite at www.waitresspoems.blogspot.com

Stan Apps: he is a poet and essayist, originally from Toronto, Canada, and Waco, Texas. Currently though, the gusty winds of D.C. are tearing him loose from his root-system in Los Angeles, California, and transplanting him to Tampa, Florida. His books include Info Ration (Make Now) and Soft Hands (Ugly Duckling); upcoming books include God's Livestock Policy (Les Figues) and Why I Joined the Avant-Garde (essays from Combo Books). Drive one mile more and take the first exit to his blog at: http://nonprovocativeurl.blogspot.com

January O'Neil: she is a 39 year old teacher, poet, writer and editor with a keen interest in literature and the Boston Red Sox. Her poetry and articles have appeared in Crab OrchardReview, Literary Mama, Field, Callaloo, Seattle Review, Stuff Magazine, Poetry Thursday, and Cave Canem Anthologies II and IV, among others. She is a fellow with Cave Canem poets, and is cofounder and cohost of New and Emerging Writers Series (NEWS), a blossoming reading series in Arlington, MA. Her first collection of poems, titled Underlife, will be published by CavanKerry Press in October 2009. She lives with her husband and two kids in North Shore, MA. Her blog is called Poet Mom at http://poetmom.blogspot.com

Xiaoyang Galas: she was born in 1973 in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China. From 1993-95 she studied art at Sichuan Fine Arts Academy. By 2002, she had had first solo exhibition of her oil paintings which she titled “From China To Europe” at the Rentes Genevoises in Geneva, Switzerland. She says there is so much sorrow in the world, but she does not want to paint that side. She wants to be a contributor to the world’s beauty. She currently lives in Varennes Saint. Sauveur, France. Visit her website at www.artbreath21.com

Tim Martin: he has a BA in Writing and Literature. His serial poem, ricochet, has been recorded twice and recently turned into a performance piece.His work has appeared in iOutlaw, One Less Magazine,Fugacity,Hamilton Stone Review, Big Bridge, Altered Books Project, The Attic Which is Desire and other small magazines. A professional stage manager, he has worked with many theatres in the Philly area (Enchantment Theatre, Theatre Ariel, New Paradise Laboratories, and many others.) He is the production manager for Mum Puppettheatre and Commonwealth Classic Theatre Company. He lives in Philadelphia, PA. His blog can be found at http://timothymartin.blogspot.com

Shanna Compton: her books and chapbooks include Down Spooky, (Winnow Press, 2005), Closest Major Town (HEHF, 2006), and For Girls (Bloof Books, 2007). Her poems and essays have appeared in dozens of publications and several anthologies, including The Best American Poetry 2005, and the Poetry Foundation website. She founded the DIY Poetry Publishing Cooperative in 2005 and publishes poetry chapbooks and broadsides via her micropress Half Empty/Half Full. She works as a freelance copywriter/publisher and occasionally teaches poetry. She lives in NYC. Her website can be found at http://shannacompton.com

Closing Notes: The editor would like to thank the contributors for the use of their work. Each contributor reserves their original rights. Look for the next issue of CSR online on Sept. 1st.

Blog Archive

I spent much of the 80s working as a freelance photographer in Europe. I returned to America in 1990. Then in 1995, I made a life-long dream come true when I traveled around the world for eight glorious months. Instead of taking pictures, I kept a journal, which eventually led me to what I feel is my "true calling". My poems have appeared in numerous national and international literary magazines both in print and on the web but I still peddle my time as a private tutor, which is not as bad as it sounds. Fact is, I no longer want to live on an iceberg, which is a good thing since they seem to be disappearing.